


If Peter Parker was John Wick

by Soupdepartment



Category: John Wick (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Alternate Universe - Spider-Man Fusion, Hurt Peter Parker, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Ned Leeds is a Little Shit, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Post-John Wick (2014), Post-John Wick: Chapter 2 (2017), Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24694450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupdepartment/pseuds/Soupdepartment
Summary: This work is a John-Wick-style fanfic of John Wick 1 &, 2 but it's Peter Parker who's still Spider-Man, along with Peter Parker's friends, and enemies, interpreted into the story. Peter is, for the most part, on the run; and we'll see where it leads him.
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a lil' graphic- hopefully more to come

A tingle in the back of Peter's neck made is hair stand on end. His hands fell onto his lap as a vision popped into his brain. Seven men, creeping through the exterior of his home with their Glock 27's raised and their galoshes stomping into the soft soil of his garden. Time slowed as the door suddenly slammed open; the glass shattering onto the now-scratched wooden floors. Peter arose from his desk, the chair wheeling back into the wall. A bullet grazed by; the sharp report stung his eardrums harshly in a loud boom and abrupt flash. It felt just like the movies; entirely too real. He immediately ducked to the floor, his hand finding its way to the metal hook of his desk drawer. It flew open with a screech he hardly heard through sprays of gunfire and clatter of furniture. He reached in and grabbed a Colt M1911, the closest in reach besides the vase he always swore he'd not break unless it were emergency. This was emergency. His finger slid around the trigger, and before he knew it, it was slamming to the back of the guard. Four rounds fired through the glass wall, descending shards into the wood. A grunt escaped the lips of a nearby assailant; Peter had managed to hit his kneecap. He scrambled to his feet and fired six more rounds, watching as two men fell to the ground in pools of blood. Then a bullet grazed his thigh, and his vision blurred to nothing.

Peter was back in his chair. The scene hadn't happened yet. Without a word, he grabbed the real Colt M1911 from the drawer and dropped to one knee, rolling quickly over to the safety of a pillar and waiting for the glass to shatter. His heartbeat thumped rapidly as adrenaline pounded through his veins, sparing his breath in anticipation. The door inevitably split from the jamb, though Peter couldn't approximately tell how many intruders had arrived without giving his location away. He slid his finger around the trigger, the stock familiar in his sticky grip. Every instinct screamed his muscles into action as the glass wall littered shards like the vision. Peter swung around the pillar and sprayed seven bullets in the direction of where the wall previously was. He heard three bodies hit the ground, and one leap away upon injury. An estimated other two were around the corner lurking. He swerved back into the safety of the pillar and took three deep breaths, mentally counting to relieve his anxiety. 

Peter lunged as a gun emerged from the left of the pillar. He rammed his entire body weight into the assailant as a bullet whizzed past him. The Colt threatened to slide from his hands, though his spider abilities wouldn't let it happen. The breath knocked out of his lungs as he endured an elbow to the gut, though adrenaline left the pain to be a tingling numbness. His arms flew around the neck of the man, dragging him into a headlock as they struggled. He raised the barrel of the gun to the man's chest. Peter could nearly hear the beating of the man's heart fade as he pulled the trigger. The gun's report was excruciating to the sensitivity of his ear drums, though Peter had begun to normalize it. The intruder dropped dead to the floor, leaving a splatter of blood on Peter's marble wall.

He spun to the safety of another pillar as two men nearly got the drop on him. Peter was too keen; he tumbled out from the pillar after a moment's silence and sprayed two bullets. Before the crossfire could knock him off his feet, he took cover beside a coffee table lined against the wall. His spidey-senses tingled and the hair stood up once again, though he didn't need a vision this time. One bullet had struck one of the other man's lungs, and the second bullet had missed. The survivor and last man were approaching to kill him. Peter knew right then he needed to move or he'd be another body on the floor. The muscles in his legs flexed as he shot forward, his eyes strained in the darkness of the hallway as he sprayed the last of his round. He speedily reloaded the magazine and clicked it into place, firing three more bullets in the direction of the two. It did him no mercy, though; the two men were lurking behind the doorway. Peter put his back against the wall and began crouching towards the foyer, a gun in his right hand and a dagger from his boot in the other.

A soon as he turned into the foyer, a heavy blow dropped him to his knees. He rammed the trigger to the guard, shooting upwards towards the men. The Colt M1911 was ripped from his hand and kicked under the couch, away from his grip. In that split second of distraction, a bout of knuckles struck his cheekbones painfully. The agony of the hit was spared for later as blood trickled down his chin. Rage twisted his stomach as the blade of Peter's dagger dragged upwards, slicing into the first man's stomach. Blood squirted onto Peter's shirt as he pulled it away and prepared it for another strike. The second man that'd jumped him gunned a bullet into Peter's upper hip point-blank, forcing him to the floor upon impact. That one hurt. Peter cried out in pain and wedged the dagger's blade through the ankle of the second man, taking advantage of his ground angle. The second man staggered and inevitably fell over as Peter ripped the dagger away, cutting clean into the Achilles tendon.

Peter propped up on his knees and leapt onto the second man, efficiently diving the knife into his temple. One down, one to go. Peter summoned his remaining energy and scrambled towards his vase, which was setup on a crooked shelf. The vibrant pastel-golden highlights of it gleamed in the bit of moonlight casting through the blinds, nearly defiling Peter's sight with the reflective pattern. He banged the fragile pot into the vinyl tile floor, scattering the pieces to reveal a Glock 17 in its wake. He slit his finger on one of the pieces as he grabbed for the Glock and shot a single bullet into the first man's forehead. The masked man, which Peter now realized was dressed in black like some ninja, dropped to the ground and began bleeding a flood of red inked blood.

Injured and huffing for breath, Peter began half-stumbling, half-crawling, towards the kitchen with the Glock in his hand. No one else dared to attack; all the intruders were dead on the floor. His floor. He dragged his body across the kitchen tile and pulled his weight into a stool, grabbing weakly at the supplies in his drawers. As the adrenaline began to wear off, the pain began to hit. The bullet in his hip dug deep, leaving a nasty tunnel through his skin and poking into his muscle. A pair of tweezers stuck to his fingers and twirled into position, though he could hardly muster the courage to dig in. He took a cotton rag and pressed it against his hip, a grumble escaping his bloodied lips. He took the tips of the tweezers and lined the edges of his skin up with the bullet to make the extraction clean. His head slammed back in pain, though he took his breath in rasps as his focus trained on the wound. He plunged the tweezers in through the tunnel and gripped the lead of the bullet, wiggling it through the skin carefully until it was entirely separated from his body. Peter hurriedly pressed the soaked rag over the skin to clean the flowing blood. He then took a staple gun and bit his lip hard. He didn't have time for stitching. He pressed down until the staples embedded into his skin and sealed the flaps together in a make-shift mend. 

He slid his shirt back over his waist and fumbled for a phone in the cabinet, his bloodied hand wetting the screen while he grasped the home button. The screen flickered to life and presented the lock screen, leaving Peter to squint at the brightness. He typed in a quick code and pressed the phone icon. He listened to each beep of the buttons while he dialed a number he knew by memory, the rag soaking his other hand as he kept pressure on his hip. After a long moment, a voice came audible through the other end.

"I need a favor." Peter grunted into the speaker. "Seven-people-worth."


	2. You're Fucked.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 1940's New York rapper with grills, chains, and a pinstripe suit drunk on bourbon named Riker talks with Peter. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this.

Peter tightened his suit jacket as he slipped the front button through the loop and adjusted the collar. The blazer was crested; trimmed and neatly hemmed to fit Peter's slim, lean figure worthwhile. The fabric outlined his muscles, though the shape made a formidable hide for his pistols of sorts. He tucked his tie into the loose-fit black button-down underneath the blazer and tightened the neck gently. He cleaned up nicely; his slacks fitted complimentingly with his suit. His coily chestnut hair was slicked to the side with gel, emphasizing his curl. His shoes were shined and reflective in the overhead lighting, a typical set of Oxfords with custom black material. All his clothing articles were blood-resistant, though not entirely liquid proof. Peter liked to think he looked like some secret spy.

His Oxfords clacked against concrete as he approached a neon-red-lit club. The music boomed through the walls, just barely muffled by the crowd. The volume was unfavorably painful to Peter's eardrums, though not unbearable. His hands slid around the door handle, his spidey-senses screaming at him to turn back. He took a deep breath and pulled the door to the left of the hinges, the music stinging his ears the moment he stepped onto the carpet. He couldn't tell if the smooth floor was scarlet, or plum in the flashing LED's. He resisted his urge to immediately grasp his Heckler & Koch P30L he'd tucked into a back holster under his blazer and button-down. A tray of wine slid by his chest, held by a rather pretty brunette woman in a bubble-gum colored dress and heels. He refused the drink offer and stepped towards the dance floor, shuffling through people that threatened to shove him if he lost his grounding. He had no intentions of party; he was here for one thing.

He neared the DJ booth and flashed a ticket between his fingers to two body guards in similar suits and wired earpieces. Peter was patted on the shoulder, which sent his senses flying with a mix of paranoia and anxiety. One of the men signaled Peter to follow and lead him away from the crowds. A lengthy corridor separated the club from the business portion of the building; the lighting switched from cycling colors to dim and flickering pendant fixtures. The floors went from unstained, bleached, colored carpets to echoing tile in an abrupt step Peter nearly tripped over. His Oxfords squeaked on the lightly blood-stain-tinted floor, giving his eardrums a roller coaster of noise and sensory overload. After a long moment, accompanied by one of the guards, Peter reached a boiler room decked in cozy furniture that seemed rather unsettling. There was a fireplace setup with armchairs, a coffee table, and rugs over the new and improved shaggy maroon carpet. A stage supported a pool table, bar, and a few explicitly dressed women with cups full of beer, or a type of liquor Peter didn't recognize directly. 

A man in a pinstripe-suit and fedora like the 80's emerged from behind the bar, his chest decked out in chains that didn't match his style. His shoes were sneakers; Jordan's by the looks of it. It was as if his suit was a costume, though Peter knew better than to stare too long. The man's lips parted in a twitchy grin that revealed his half grilled teeth. They were gold; some flashing charms like a rapper would wear. Peter kept his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the other man to speak. The silence was painstakingly awkward and uncomfortable as the man approached with a cup of whiskey bourbon. Peter didn't personally drink; the scent of alcohol reeked to him. The stench of liquor was strong in the back room, making Peter want to faint on the spot. His vision stayed strained as he patiently remained hushed.

"Peter Parker." the man finally said, his voice gruff and detectably slurred.

"Mardon Riker." Peter answered back with a clear of his throat.

Riker set his glass on the coffee table and leapt towards Peter. Peter nearly belched as the aroma of alcohol became increasingly intense. "What brings you here? You're leaning on your left leg more. You get jumped?"

Peter scowled at Riker's cocky tone when he emphasized his observations of Peter's favored left leg. "Yeah. Seven goons. You got anything to do with it, Mar?"

Riker thought for a long moment, his hand dramatically on his chin. "Na-h. Not my style. Have a seat."

Riker settled in an armchair by the fireplace, reclaiming his glass of whiskey in his clammy hands. Peter grimaced and adjusted his suit as he leveled down into the uncomfortable arm chair diagonal to Riker. A cup of beer was placed at Peter's side, to which he smiled politely and took in one hand. It took all his strength not to cringe and gag at the smell. The alcohol fragrance mixed with the effluvium of sex was overwhelmingly nasty to Peter's hypersenses. He blinked a few times and focused on the fire, letting the heat reach his skin. It felt nourishing on Peter's recent bullet wound. He waited a few moments before licking the dryness from his mouth to speak. Even then, Riker beat him to it.

"So how many were there?" Riker asked again.

"Seven."

"And now?"

"They're all dead."

Riker chuckled in the most obnoxious way Peter had ever heard. "Right on, kid."

"I want out." Peter stated. "This isn't my job. I didn't sign up to be a pawn."

"Pawn?" Riker repeated, leaning in to let out a huff of cigarette smoke. "You're not just a pawn, boy. You's the asset. You don't know that? There's no way out. Ya' trapped, like a spider in a container. Nobody wan'na let out a spider in a container. Drink up, kid. It' been a night."

Peter despised Riker's 'accent'. It wasn't just the way he spoke; it was the tone of it. Riker talked like a New York teenager from the 40's. Peter didn't have to look far to see the man was off his rocker. "No, thank you." he politely declined, setting the glass on the coffee table. "I've ought to be on my way, then. If I can't stop them, I've got to at least get away from them."

"After that stunt you pulled?" Riker scoffed, pouring out his drink into the fire. "Last year was your fault, you killed tha' wrong guy and you got his whole mob after you. If you think for a second this ain't your reward for bein' the bad guy, you're dead wrong, fella."

Peter hated the way Riker spat 'fella' like it were a closing threat. Peter calmly set the glass of beer back on the coffee table and adjusted his tie. "I didn't say it wasn't my fault, Mar. I know it's my fault. But I'm not sitting around like a duck waiting to be sniped like your brother. Again, I'll be on my way."

Riker rolled his beady eyes and tumbled to his feet, returning back on the stage-style lift of the floor with the women in lingerie coated with alcohol stains. "Yeah, Parker. You'll be 'on your way' to six feet under when the Vil's get you, and then you'll be fucked."

Peter grumbled a curse of irritation and swiped the beer glass onto the carpet out of impulse. He immediately regretted his outburst, his middle and ring fingers pulling back to click his web shooters and catch the glass before it hit the floor. He then placed the glass back on the table, adjusted his blazer, and stalked passively towards the door. The body guard that'd escorted him re-emerged with a stoic guise, leading Peter back down through the tile corridor. The few minutes it took to return to the blaring music of the club were a blur of annoyance for Peter, though in real time, he'd been in the room for a total of ten minutes. He wasn't able to focus until the distasteful beat of rap-style music and flashing of blinding LED's hit. Peter was first and foremost alleviated to be away from the alcoholic miasma. The bubble-gum brunette returned with the wine platter, though Peter once again declined. He spotted the nearest exit and ushered towards it, using his body weight to shove past anyone in his way. The lobby he had to push to smelled more like bleach than anything, a faint scent of chemicals tickling Peter's nostrils. It was a brand he recognized and knew well; Clorox. 

He sauntered through the vestibule and into the portico, clacking rushingly down the stairs while the laces of his Oxfords unwinded. He pulled his keys loop from his slacks pockets and chirped the relatively close alarm of the unlock button. The C8 Corvette's scissor doors opened upwards, exposing the driver's seat. Peter slid into the smooth leather interior and twisted the key valve until he heard the sweet sound of the engine roar. The well-built car's tires powerfully churned as Peter slammed the gear shift back into drive and eased the gas. He spun the steering wheel and swerved out of the parking spot, accelerating down the road and through green lights. He let his thoughts fade away as he cruised down the streets, the engine revving mightily every time he teased the gas pedal. Nothing mattered when he was gliding down the paved roads; his mind clearing out to a favorably blank frame of mind.

Though, something big was beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is a filler chapter but it's currently 3am so I'll fix up the mistakes in the morning lol, night people
> 
> Edit: part 3 is half-way done and on the way


	3. Chapter 3

Peter's hand ran through his slicked-back chestnut hair, the gel rubbing off on his fingers. A sigh escaped his cracked lips as he jogged leisurely down the sidewalk. His coat flowed at his sides with the light breeze, and his shoes scratched against the concrete. He'd been wearing the same outfit he wore to meet Riker; slacks, button-down, suit jacket, and Oxfords. Though ruffled, his sleeves were drawn up to his elbows as the night grew hotter in the summer atmosphere and his intentions widened. He was in a rush, to say the least; the chances of being seen in public by an agent were far too high and he had no disguise. The bullet wound in his hip had begun to heal rapidly, though he could sense the skin uncomfortably wavering with each lunge he took down the sidewalk. He swerved down an alleyway and quickened his pace, ensuring he took the quickest route to the Stark facility. As before, he had a man to see. Riker was his scapegoat.

As he approached the wide portico and rushed up the stairs, the automatic transparent doors slid aside to showcase the lobby of Tony Stark's building itself. The tower was nearly twice the size of any in Queens and the width took an entire block, including his outdoor festivities. Peter couldn't imagine a more cocky, fortunate rich man than Stark. Though, he was a convenient man to have as an ally. Peter needed allies. Though, the chances of protection from the so-called 'villains' were running slim. Peter was losing his sense of direction, though he had a list of assets he chose to entirely rely on in a time of crisis. His only goal was to not reach the end of that list.

Peter stepped onto the absorbent black rug stationed at the entrance way, scuffing the watery soles of his shoes along the material until the Oxfords were dry of puddle water and dirt. He adjusted his blazer and folded the collar, surveying the lobby before taking any further notion. For the most part, it was cozy. The receptionist desk was occupied by a blonde woman in a charcoal pansuit. She smirked politely at him, though Peter paid no mind. By that was a waiting area, stocked with armchairs, sofas, rugs, and coffee tables with cliche magazines. A coffee machine station was wedged between the elevator row, complete with racks of coffee cups and a Keurig. There were three elevators and a long hallway of what Peter assumed were conference rooms of sorts. The elevator doors for the 'up' portion were open and inviting, though Peter knew he had to check-in. 

He stalked towards the receptionist desk, scanning over the blonde woman subtly. Her teeth were so white they seemed transparent with the institutional white walls behind her. Her pansuit was tight-fitted, almost so it seemed like she could hardly move to reach her equipment. Her hands kept over her hips, as if she weren't sure what to do with them. Overall, she awkwardly hunched over the counter; too lengthy with her heels to fit comfortably out of a chair. Peter almost found it humorous how much of an archetype she was as a receptionist, exactly like you'd expect when you enter a building and a woman with a ponytail so tight her scalp looks like it hurts greets you. Still, he gratefully returned her welcoming smile and opened his mouth to speak.

"Parker. I'd like to see the boss." he stated.

The woman cleared her throat, her squeaky voice sounding in turn. "Whom?"

Peter cursed himself for forgetting the damned sentence he was supposed to say like code word. "Y'know, the weather’s so hot today, it could almost melt iron." he recited. Peter wondered who’d come up with the sentence; to him, it sounded pointless.

"I'd say it's rather chilly." the woman replied with a courtesy nod. "Floor twenty-two, use your key, Peter."

"Always. Thank you."

Peter spun on one heel and sauntered to the 'up' elevator. He stopped dead in his tracks before he reached it and skidded over to the coffee station. A hum rumbled in his vocal chords as he lifted the pot and snagged the silver key hidden underneath the plastic. He then set the pot down and continued into the elevator with the key between his fingers. A burly, muscular body-guard in a suit and tie entered in beside him, leaning against the metal wall and thick glass behind them for precaution. Peter kept himself alert, his eyes keen and his ears twitching as he slid the key through the '27' slot on the button panel and twisted. The elevator doors pulled shut and the gears began rotating, the elevator leisurely taking a smooth ride up to the twenty-second floor penthouse. Peter's legs were threatening to tremble under his slacks, though he managed to keep himself under control. He'd weaken his reflexes if he were tense, and besides; Stark would only kill him for contract. Peter's bounty was exclusively personal to a specific group, and Stark was no team player.

As the elevator chimed and the doors began to part, Peter bit the inside of his lip. His jaw tightened as he maintained a controlled stance and leaned forward until his feet met the penthouse carpet. It looked like any rich man's housing unit in his own building; decked out in white and red highlights. On the spot, the room was more substantial than Peter's entire housing unit. Yet, in the one lounge, there was a kitchen setup, living room area, dining table, and a bathroom visible through an open door. The bedroom door was shut; or at least Peter assumed that was the bedroom. In all senses, it was a dreamland to any less fortunate folk. Stark himself was strolling through the kitchen, a towel strung over his shoulder as he stocked his cabinets. Peter thought men like Stark had maids for that, though he wouldn't have been shocked if that was Stark's version of individuality; stocking your own cabinets. Stark was decked out in a button-up, suit pants, and loafers. His beard was cleanly trimmed and his hair was combed back neatly, though all in all, he looked rather drained from a day's work.

Peter grumbled a cough of announcement, hesitant to speak on his sudden arrival to Stark's living space with such a problematic favor. "Stark, you clean up well." he decided to start off with. It was a basic statement, though Peter wanted to make clear his lack of hostility with the lighthearted compliment. Stark's piercing brown eyes met Peter's, that signature smug grin along his aging features. 

"Mr. Parker. You didn't call in a visit." Stark greeted. "Pleasure to see you're still alive."

"The circumstance was urgent, and I suppose I still remember where you keep your elevator key." Peter uttered dryly.

"Sit." Stark demanded. Stark strode over to the living room portion of the house and eased onto one of the couches, his eyebrows furrowed and his expression patient. Peter obeyed and stepped off the entrance-way carpet, his Oxfords clacking on the tile segment of the flooring. He made his way to an armchair and settled, one leg crossing over the other. He waited for Stark to speak first, his hopes anticipating a repeat of Riker's 'you're fucked, and on your own' declaration. In worst case-scenario, he'd be leaving this building bolting down the street with his P30L in his grip. In best case, he wasn't fucked. In a mix of both, he had his back covered by one of the wealthiest men in the city.

"Why'd you come here, kid? I pray you don't think I'm going to give you a sappy pep-talk." Stark accused.

Peter's lips parted to speak, though it took him a moment to figure out the right words. "Everyone in the city's looking for me. Some are trying to kill me."

"And you're here why?" Stark pressured.

"I'd rather not die." Peter claimed bluntly. "I was hoping to get your coverage, just until I find some grounding."

Stark stayed silent for a long moment, his eyes keeping contact with Peter's. Peter could almost see the cogs spinning in Stark's mind, though he half expected to just be spat on and kicked to the street like a lost puppy. Peter's hands intertwined, though the sweat running between them made Peter wish he had a napkin, or even a handkerchief. Despite the blasting AC unit, Peter's nerves kept his skin moist with perspiration under his button-down. Stark licked his lips and drew in a sharp breath, though he still waited minutes to determine his answer. Those minutes felt like the longest in Peter's life.

"I take you as a resilient man, Mr. Parker." Stark's hand dug it's way into his suit jacket, returning with the stock of a Beretta 92 FS. The barrel was flipped towards Peter's forehead, and Stark's finger was over the trigger. Peter didn't have to guess that the safety was off; he already knew. "But tell me why I shouldn't shoot you right here."

"What's in it for you, Stark? You with 'em?" Peter asked. His tone was sangfroid, his voice as firm as it'd go. He attempted to keep control of himself while staring back at the bullet chamber of a Beretta.

"A decent amount of money goes a long way." Stark answered.

"Then pull the trigger." Peter dared.

Stark's grin widened as he pulled his sleeve back and checked his wristwatch. "Not so fast, kid. You're getting a little too ballsy on the wrong side of the gun. I'm not going to shoot you, but I told them where you were. You've got about two minutes before they get to you from the lobby, and I'll give you a sixty second head-start before I catch you myself."

Peter's panic began to set in at the two minute notice. He lunged out of the chair and skidded to the center of the penthouse, twirling around to double-check his environment. He estimated the risk he took if he tried the elevator, which inevitably wouldn't work in a two minute ratio. He couldn't hide; it was Stark's penthouse, he had the disadvantage. Then it clicked: the window. The entire front wall was made up of approximately 12 millimeter glass with bulletproof reinforcements. Peter stammered under his breath as he ran through calculations in his mind, ignoring the hair that fell over his face as he scrambled backwards and narrowed his eyes. He flicked up the hologram attachment to his web shooters and chose a web-grenade formula, then aimed at the 12mm glass wall. He instinctively rammed back his middle and ring fingers to the activation trigger in his palm and slung the fired web forwards. The web attached to the glass while Peter covered his head with his jacket. An ear-rattling explosion nearly knocked him off his feet as the glass blew open, and a sizable hole was left in its wake. Peter shook his formula back to the default and scuffed his shoes against the floor, sucking in a deep breath before diving towards the hole. He leaped out of it and began soaring through the exposed air, consequently about to plunge to his death in moments. He fired another web at a nearby establishment and started to sway, adjusting to the atmosphere and getting a groove with his routine Tarzan-swinging he typically practiced in less urban parts of the city. 

Peter made his escape and didn't cease his getaway tactic until he tumbled to the roof of his favorite deli. He rested there a long while, using the bordered outline as cover to catch his breath. The clock was nearing three in the morning, and he hadn't rested in days. Exhaustion was reaching his limbs, making his movements dull-witted until his eyelids were drooping and he felt himself slipping into slumber. He abruptly slapped himself awake, reminding himself that he couldn't rest out in the open, even if he did feel secure. He'd be found too briskly. Peter dragged himself to his feet and rolled over the balcony of the roof, catching himself with a sticky web to the neighboring facility that his hand nearly slipped from. The day's incidents had left him winded mentally, and he needed a while to strip the soreness from his body. He dropped down from the web hold and let his shoes slap against the alleyway puddle, his eyes darting to find the nearest hotel. He managed to spot a lone inn about two blocks away from his location. The rooms were a pity and the quality of the inn was shoddy, though the probability of Peter’s identity staying concealed with the faulty documenting of residents left a wad of space to let Peter get a few hours sleep before the day nagged at him. 

He began sprinting eagerly through the alley, his Oxfords splashing in the rain residue left on the asphalt to make a slippery mix of dirt, rock, and water. He kicked pebbles from his way and persevered, exhaustion and survival being the only thought on his mind. The privilege to sink into a warm bed was taunting him with the journey he had to make to get to it, which in reality, was a few streets difference. He didn't think much of the alleyway until his spidey-senses ran a tingle along his spine and the hair on the back of his neck spiked up, provoking the rest of his body hair to rise. A vision popped into his head abruptly of him standing there, so clearly that he didn't realize it was a vision at first. Then a clanking of a nearby trash can, and the click of a reloading revolver. A man in worn down clothes that almost looked like rags skidded to a halt against the pavement and turned the barrel of the revolver right between Peter's eyes. The bullet fired and the vision faded to nothing. Peter was back to reality within the two-second time frame warning, the environment seemingly increased in vibrancy. His reflexes almost lagged as he heard the real click of the revolver, and he managed to lunge behind a stack of garbage cans before the man spun down the asphalt.

Adrenaline shot through Peter's veins, springing every muscle into action as one hand dragged to his Heckler & Koch P30L in his back holster. He held it pointed upwards, tucked to his shoulder as he crouched and waited. A thin bullet whizzed past his cover spot, leaving Peter to dodge backwards and nearly lose his balance. He used the garbage as a boost as he swerved out into the alley and pointed the P30L, firing three shots in the man's estimated direction. One blew out his knee cap, one rammed into his shoulder, and the third struck a trash bag behind him. Automatically, the assailant shot in return before his body jerked back and he descended to the ground. A bullet grazed Peter's calf, slicing the surface of the skin in two with a powerful swipe. Peter suppressed the pain with adrenaline and began jogging down the alley, double-tapping the guy's forehead on his way. His jog accelerated to a sprint as he heard the clatter of nearby boots against pebbles. He noted approximately three more guys by the noise, though didn't have time to turn and check. He had to move.

Peter ducked under an overhang behind a closed restaurant and pulled his pants leg up to his knee, inspecting the nasty graze. It wasn't severe; just tore the outermost layers of his skin. He knew if he was to be running he had to patch it speedily. His head pulsated as he huffed, his heartbeat spiking with the flood of consternation. He shook his web-shooters, which were strapped to his wrist, and aimed one at the lacerate. He rammed back his middle and ring fingers, slinging a web onto his skin and binding the flaps together painfully. He bit his lip and let out a grunt of agony at the incoming sting, though inevitably had to bury his pain and keep moving. He tucked his web-shooters back under his suit sleeve and rolled down his pants leg to his ankle.

He spun the P30L into his holster and wormed his head around the corner to scope the alley. No one was lurking; as far as he saw. He rotated on his heel and swiftly lunged into the night, his Oxfords skidding on the stray pebbles. He only had seconds to find a cover before the newer wave of assailants heard him. He engaged into a full-fledged sprint of self-preservation, his calf spiking a blistering pain up his nerves with every pace; though, the webbing held firm. Bullets followed his escape attempt shortly after, striking either the pavement a few feet away from him or the trash bins stationed outside local buildings. The atmosphere was pitch-black from far away, leaving their efforts to gun him down impractical. Peter managed to spot an opening in the alley and hung a left that nearly sent him to the ground. He tucked his elbows close to his hips, slimming his figure effectively. 

He emerged out into the busy sidewalk, nearly bumping into a broad woman with a discernible frown. Peter quickly noticed she was holding a two dimly lit candles with plastic folded into cones at the edges. He identified it as a vigil; most likely come from an after-funeral gathering. With an apologetic smile, he slipped one of the candles from her hands and melded into the crowd of candlelight vigil-goers, in an exchange that took mere seconds. The hair at the back of his neck was prickling in paranoia, though no new visions came yet. He ducked low to avoid any assailants pinpointing his location; easily blending in with the fortunately-passing throng. Though, the cover wouldn't last. He resisted the urge to case his area, attempting to avoid suspicion by checking his surroundings frequently.

Abruptly, Peter's head tilted back and his eyes drew wide. Dread prickled in his stomach, along with a simultaneous rush of emotion. The hair on the back of his neck went from a prickle to a tingle along his spine, and he felt the corners of his vision collapse into a mass of darkness. When his sight drew functional, the crowd had diverted. Peter stood idle on the cracked pavement, his chest churning with anticipation. He took two steps forward, though the earth seemed to spin endlessly, and his balance was off. A sharp pain spiked near his side, making him hunch forwards with a scowl. His head panned down to find the tip of a knife dragged through his right lung. The handle was pressed unyielding against his back, leaving the skin taut against the stem of the blade. Blood pooled down to his feet, running streams down his inky-stained button-down. His knees buckled, splashing into the puddle of what felt like rainwater, despite its scarlet hue. His eyelids drooped, and eventually, his consciousness flickered to vacancy.

Then he was back in the crowd. Peter promptly patted his chest, though, there were no traces of a stabbing. His shoulders slumped in momentary relief, and the realization of the long-awaited vision lingered in his mind. The consolation was short-lived, though, and Peter's reflexes leapt into overdrive. His torso twisted one-hundred and eighty degrees, his legs following suit. It was just in time to dodge the sleek build of a trench dagger coming directly towards him. The blade grazed his arm, though it narrowly avoided striking his flesh head-on. One hand instinctively shot forwards and wrapped around the wrist of the assailant, cracking it to the side with full-force. In a few adrenaline lead moments, Peter grabbed the man's elbow with his other hand and redirected the dagger from him. The assailant's strength fought against him, though Peter had speed on the guy. Peter knocked the blade forwards until the blade drove half-way into the man's abdomen. A cry of pain escaped his lips, attracting the attention of passerby. Civilians began to scatter; a few bellowing out in horror at the sight of the knife. 

Peter didn't waste any time. He watched as the man staggered, one hand wrapped over the handle of the trench knife. Peter's leg shot out and jolted the man's hand, forcing the blade deeper into his stomach. The second cry was more of a hoarse wheeze, and inevitably, the assailant collapsed. Peter's body drifted forwards until he was scampering down the sidewalk, ignoring the attempts to yank his arm by alarmed bystanders. They were trying to catch him; which meant more pursuit. Peter's body was already aching, and his leg was leaking through the web, additional to the fresh graze over his bicep. Though, his stride didn't waver. He dashed two blocks forwards before he was unavoidably followed. At first, he wasn't sure who was following him, only the clatter of footfalls. A swift glance behind him revealed a burly man decked out in security uniform; a white button-up, charcoal trousers, and loafers. Great. The police would be after him if he couldn't shake the guard off his trail. Keeping both mercenaries and authorities at bay wasn't ideal.

With the impression the pursuer wasn't armed, Peter's wrist snaked down his sleeve to uncover his web-shooters. He put one hand behind his back and rammed his fingers against the trigger, aiming in the general direction he heard the guard scurrying. Peter heard an 'oh!' a few yards behind him, and the footfalls halted. Peter took the disruption as a window to escape, pumping his muscles further down the street to cover. Everything ached in protest; though adrenaline kept him steady. He didn't slow his pace until he was a few blocks over, on a mostly-empty road. He decelerated to a jogging pace, tilting his head back for a brief rush of air to his lungs. A few cursory gazes pointed in his direction; Peter presumed a man in a suit hauling ass down the sidewalk seemed generally puzzling. 

Peter skidded to a rocky halt next to the cracked window of a parked Geely MR with a rusted paint-job. Inconspicuous, though extremely janky. The man in the driver's seat was alone, puffing a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Tattoos ran from his shins to his neck, his arms covered in sleeves of ink that Peter couldn't make out. His head was buzzed to a centimeter from the scalp, dyed a deep shade of taupe. He was dressed in a beer-stained white tank and cargo shorts, along with untied off-brand crimson Nike's coated in grime. The treads were torn; fabric protruding from the edges. From what Peter saw, there were no weapons inside the Geely. He rotated and stalked to the opposite side of the car. Peter yanked the handle until the door popped from the frame, and slid into the passenger seat.

"Woah, what the hell?" the smoker yelped, dropping the cigarette from his lips. It bounced onto the floor with the others, burning out upon impact. 

Peter flipped the air vents from his direction, unable to handle the profuse stench of smoke pounding against his face. He slipped a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and forcefully grasped the smoker's wrist, sliding the bill into his palm. "Take me to the corner of Alcams and Echard."

"Why should I do that? Why don't I take the money and go?" the smoker threatened.

Peter huffed a sigh and reached for his holster, clutching the stock of the Heckler & Koch P30L. He drew it and kept his finger on the side of the trigger guard as he wordlessly reloaded the barrel. The smoker's hands immediately flew to the wheel, one redirecting and pushing the gear shift into drive. Peter couldn't help but smirk internally; it didn't take much to scare someone within point-blank range.

The smoker pressed the gas and pulled out onto the main road, beginning to head south towards the requested streets. It was no more than thirty miles away; Peter was looking for a warehouse out in a primarily-corn field he'd set up as a makeshift base. It was efficient enough that the hitmen had stayed off his trail. The warehouse was spacey; there were one-and-a-half levels, both in eyeline the moment you walked through the entryway. The foyer expanded into a stage-like upstairs, which unfortunately, wasn't a great cover in the case of a raid. The doors were industrial steel sliding doors with enough deadbolts to keep a bull from barging in. The first few floor panels were triggers, like land mines. Except, this one was an electric web stunner, courtesy of Karen; Peter's AI and weapons supplier. Considering Peter's team consisted of three people, to them, it was a stealthy location, and off-the-grid enough to remain concealed for a few months.

The drive to the actual warehouse felt longer than Peter anticipated. They past by farms, neighborhoods, gas stations, and grocery stores, though none seemed any closer to the promised corn field. In the span of about half an hour, the driver had downed four cigarettes and a quarter of a dip tobacco can. Peter covered his mouth occasionally with his jacket sleeve, though the only source of fresh air was the mildly cracked window beside him. Smoke still pounded in his face, making his sinuses tingle with discomfort. The smoker had made numerous attempts to badger Peter into giving him more money- which ended in a bullet threat when the smoker had drawn past boundaries. Peter wasn't up to hand over anything over at the smoker's demands; it was the same reason he paid the driver beforehand. Twenty dollars, that was all. No implication there was going to be an additional pay.

Peter's hand was already over the lock system before the driver reeled the car into the pavement on the corner of the two requested streetsides. The smoker muttered some gruff statement like 'we're here', though Peter was half-way out onto the street. He ignored the protesting ache of his limbs and took in a precious deep breath, taking advantage of the non-polluted atmosphere. It was followed by a few harsh coughs, clearing the buildup of secondhand smoke in Peter's lungs for being in fumes for an entire, excruciating hour. He stretched his tender legs, followed by a twinging pain from his injured calf, and began trudging forwards down the sidewalk. The driver's tires shrieked and left marks on the asphalt as he swerved into a U-turn, accelerating down the way he'd come from. Peter didn't look back. Each step felt exhausting, and he marveled the idea of laying down at the warehouse for a few hours of sleep. Even just a few minutes felt heavenly; though he had a ways to walk before he could rest safely.

The field came into distance within a couple of agonizing minutes, it's taupe steel feeling miles away. Peter stopped at the edge of the overgrown grass, his eyes averting to the rigid cobalt mailbox, crooked in the surfacing dirt. He staggered lightly to the side, flinging the hatch down and seizing the weekly papers impelled inside. He tucked them under his armpit and set off on the narrow footpath leading through the corn horde. Leaves grazed his arms as he went, a few jabbing at his untreated knife graze, though enervation kept Peter's pain at bay. He managed to make his way through the hundred foot- give or take- clearing to the warehouse, his right hand snaking into his pocket to retrieve his key set. He pulled the wire loop into his grasp and knocked back the jingling keys one by one until he found the right one for each deadbolt, which took about four minutes in total to insert and twist each key. The industrial steel door gave way at a hefty shove to the left, sliding along the rails until Peter had the right amount of leeway to squeeze through without triggering a sensor. His muscles screamed to collapse on the spot as he pulled his coat from his shoulders and lifted it neatly onto the vestibule rack. Peter ignored the ache and stood on the backs of his heels to haul his Oxfords from his feet and onto the cozy beige floormat. He swerved and dragged his socks against the tile floor, heading to grab a protein bar and waterbottle from the mini-fridge, and leaving the folded newspapers on top of the black frame. He took his snacks and headed for the 'living room', a glint of satisfaction making it's way into his expression. Though, as he stopped to lean against a beam for a prolonged moment, his eyes panned up to see the recognizable face of none other than Ned, following the barrel of a Colt M1911 pointed directly at his forehead.


End file.
